1988

March 15, 2011

she came back and my heart sank.  she didn’t have glasses anymore, was wearing a leather skirt.  the news exploded like a population of rabbits, i could hear the chirping and smell the burning fur and knew that it was over.  my heart sank.  my shy collection of thoughts revolving spiraling into the black hole of assurance my soul sunk at the center of this well of thoughts.  she was back and as if seperated from me like a sheet of plexiglass, like i was a bear at the zoo and she walked outside licking cotton candy from her fingers as i slept and maybe saw her eyes but she walked away nonetheless sadder for my apathy.  she was back and i could see her as an adult and me too, lawyers somewhere around a table, built of words and numbers but the fact of her remaining i can change into this i can get away from anything i am a butterfly and you don’t even have a name

it became me in the dim yellow hallway, it passed over and through me and held my face noted that i was sad but didn’t have an idea the painless cannot look at the pained for too long

morning blackness then pinprick of awareness

pulls through walls

bones move to spark the flesh

breath breathe and air enters head

stretch of 15 days ahead

see same flat drive to sad place singing

coalblack dreams subsist against frozen plastic cans

food and teeth flourescent salmon yellow bacteria silver green

men came jobs loading wooden crates into english marches

morning driving home to sunlit bath wake for an hour

sit there among strings and cords

sit there papers up to waist

then filled word to key against boundary packed in styrofoam

seeing shapes everywhere shapes of everything everywhere repeated

seeing  everywhere shapes repeating everything

pulled grey from walls to lungs to fill

deep farmer greyed tending

the crop of stillness

puddle grey metal brown from shapes flat hedge of directions

way to find a way left maps of recursion

once through this grey left smeared like an oil sheet stretching out

fingers took the floor

for feeling of the cold in the dark

seeing space expand and contract

once space will contract again and leave this place

once the space taken out will expand again

late late

March 17, 2009

we laugh and the night flashesi think i could see  dark and lurks behind cars more things to create impermanence  in my life.  wonderful in the shadows, holding in straight lines drafted to create a curved contour our voices crumbled from the flat glassy plane of the air and also in memory of the water, black with a hollow scoop of depth from the sky to a hundred and fifty feet below the wooden planks but when we talked about personal strength and fate next to the brackish water somewhere under us lies the grey city water cold and salt moon light shards glinting a pattern at the edge of the shore remove it for later and think when you have found the person to understand and the understanding will be something you can’t believe yet she grabs my hand she grabs it anyway even though i have been sweating poison out shining through my skin glistening red and says ‘i can’t make it’ this is like playing the end dying in midstride, we laugh and she breathes in suddenly her pupils are dilating around me coming down floating through time and decaying into a fine cloud of beginning threads limply drawn upwards like dust from a impermeable mass to an infinite gable  remove again the meaning, endurance, temperance, forgiveness; for the time being we are peaking in our lives into a smaller state a pedestal from which we make our lives will decline be lived we are planning this out to the fraction like playing chess on water droplets


scott bruzenak

December 20, 2008

this is the official start of the personality cult of me.  beyond this point back in time, i was a collection of random vectors.  going forward, i am an idea about me, replaced constantly by an ever-increasing sense of me-ness which will be cultivated like a garden of stone.  the workmen come at night and leave no trace-comrades dissapear like those of stalin in revisionist portraits, and we get an ever shinier and more resolute person standing, facing the internet and the physical world.

mindshare in this courageous world will be granted by consensus.  the market bears mushroom clouds of words; they rain black radiation of glowing praise and tins of pressed meat that will remain floating in the ocean of our commons for centuries.  or, at least until the infrastructure grows hollow and is exploded for a deer-run along wilshire.  today’s civilization is tomorrow’s landscape.  today’s problems are tomorrow’s mythologies.  what were these people?  what was scott bruzenak?  was he a collection of generated words?  an origami of demographics folded with the paper of dna?  who controlled his statistics?  where are his bones? 

in the time before my idea, there was only a common collection of people.  after me, the world was sorted and mulched for a seedplan, the rows orderly and placated into a golden torus.  we became more than a sum of qualities. 

the simple truth is a complicated lie.

so, weekly, we meet hidden, underground, to commune with a beam focused in the middle of downtown LA, we are left there with our bottles of plastic water and electrical conduits.  we love to hold our faith in limbo waiting for the word.